


Brynhildarkviða

by SnarkySharke



Series: Fate Drabbles [6]
Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Prototype: Fragments of Sky Silver, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, Definitely., F/F, F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Multi, No Smut, arguably?, but close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29451534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkySharke/pseuds/SnarkySharke
Summary: or,"The Lay of Brynhild."She is shelter, and she is dangerous. For all that she tries to be ice, Brynhild is fire.
Relationships: Achilles | Rider of Red/Medea | Caster, Brynhildr | Lancer/Jeanne d'Arc Alter | Avenger, Brynhildr | Lancer/Sigurd | Saber, Heroic Spirit Emiya | Archer/Artoria Pendragon Alter | Saber
Series: Fate Drabbles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597582
Kudos: 19





	Brynhildarkviða

**Author's Note:**

> I use "Brynhild" without the extra _r_ at the end for the sake of uniformity. That _r_ is a linguistic characteristic of Icelandic singular nominative nouns; therefore, if one uses "Brynhildr" then for consistency one should also the original "Sigurðr", which I'm not going to do because, well, it sounds funny. 
> 
> It's not like I'm going to go around shouting about this, but it's a bit of trivia I know, and I like to try and get other languages right whenever I can. Suffice to say, my dropping the _r_ (or keeping it) is a conscious decision.

_Be cold. I must be as ice._

That was her mantra. A contrast to the flames that had consumed her and everything around her in life. It helped, but never enough.

Master was her primary concern, of course. If he fell, all hope for humanity, all they were working for, would be lost. It was unfortunate that very reason, and his enduring tenacity in the face of it, only made him more like her Beloved.

Brynhild wasn’t truthfully sure anymore if Master was actually a man at all. When she looked at him, all she saw was her Beloved. 

It was terrifying. _She_ was terrifying. 

Her first meeting with him, in a rune-inflicted trance, was more a test for herself than for him. She had failed, miserably. But she couldn’t leave him be, and so she came to Chaldea anyway. She wanted to believe that she came to save humanity, not for him. Not just for him.

She detested this fire inside her, she told him. She wanted to be rid of it for his sake. But she could never snuff it out. Master wouldn’t have condoned it, anyway. The fire that consumed her was love, the precious, treasured, life-giving, dangerous gift her Beloved had given to the cold valkyrie. Her battle to keep her twisted love under control was constant, but it was not one she would give up on, to either end.

Master turned out not to be the only threat to her delicate balance in Chaldea. 

She sensed it the moment she was properly summoned. Daughter of the Allfather, wielder of the Primordial Runes, and married to whom she was, she was sensitive to the Factor of the Dragon. It was a feeling like an electrical storm approaching, though nobody else seemed to pick it up the way the valkyrie did. 

But although it put her on guard, reminded her of her Beloved, the feeling was different. Artoria was nice, but she was not her Beloved. The sight of Mordred on the battlefield made Brynhild’s breath catch at first, her armor and helm, her Secret of Pedigree, cutting a silhouette so reminiscent of the Helm of Terror, the visage of Fafnir -- but it was only a helm, and its eyes didn’t glow with crystallized wisdom, and she could rest easy. Mordred was nice -- in her own way -- but she was certainly not her Beloved.

But there was someone. Brynhild could feel it. Another dragon’s pulse, with a crisp chill beneath the static. Like a moth to flames, she pursued it. She couldn’t help it. 

He bore some resemblance. He had a stoney face but an easy smile, and his hair was approximately the right hues, the same spikey texture, but in the wrong arrangement, and far too long. Her Beloved had always kept his hair practically short. It was so like him.

But Siegfried was about the same build, his eyes the same piercing shade. The same exact shade. He _smelled_ like her Beloved, like dragon’s blood and fresh snow. He was so similar that the fact that he ultimately _wasn’t_ her Beloved only made it worse. She wanted to kill him on sight. To cut him in half, impale his heart so that the blood ran out down her spear and covered her, burn him to ashes until there was nothing left but smoke, laughing and crying as the flames consumed her too. She wanted to take him to bed, and she wanted to take him apart piece by piece for being too close, for not being close enough. In the hall of her castle waiting for her Beloved to return to her, she had taken her sword and killed countless suitors for the sin of _not being him._

It was Emiya who saved him, which was no help. She only stopped because she saw his hair, that smooth white hair, and the look in his eyes of a ruthless tactician with something to protect at any cost. Though his eyes burned like fire rather than ice, those were the eyes of her Beloved.

She avoided Siegfried at all cost after that. She wanted to avoid Emiya, too, but she found herself spending more and more time at the cafeteria, sitting closer and closer to the serving area, watching him. Eventually, she made the mistake of talking to him.

He was gruff at first. Then he teased her about keeping such distance from everyone and suddenly approaching him and acting like a blushing maiden. Because those things only made her heart race faster, thinking of her Beloved.

In time, their companionship -- his companionship, her shameful obsession -- gave way. Tense silence turned comfortable, then silence to conversation in earnest, as friends. He spoke kindly and softly, and though he smiled only rarely, each time Brynhild felt the flame swell inside her. 

Underneath it all, he had an air of great sadness about him. She could see it sharply in his severe features when Artoria came to the cafeteria. That was the look of her Beloved, as well. The look of a man gazing upon his love and knowing that he could not allow it to be ever again.

Emiya spoke only vaguely of his past; one where she gathered he felt unworthy and indebted, and had wasted much of his time in senseless violence. He spoke of Artoria, when she could make him, almost as if she was his queen, rather than his partner. Brynhild told him he was a good man, and that if she was still a valkyrie and he had lived in her time, he would have earned a place in Odin’s hall a dozen times over. Emiya laughed. He taught her to cook a few simple things. And suddenly it was like Brynhild was back in Hindarsfjall with her Beloved, teaching and being taught, whiling away the days in each other’s company…

Brynhild turned suddenly and left the cafeteria, and did not return. She burned.

She began spending more time with Artoria, always subconsciously steering the conversations back toward him. It was like a drug; she was still craving him, and this was her way to wean herself off. They were clearly connected, and it made Brynhild ache. Life was harsh and fleeting and they should have held each other dearly and never let go; why didn’t they understand that?

She would have held him. She would have held his head gently in her lap or against her bosom, would have gladly run her hands over his body, learned his scars -- and undoubtedly inflicted new, far worse ones upon him. She did not tell Artoria so, and she did not go back to him again.

Unfortunately, he did not leave her alone. It was difficult. His kind, rough, cold, burning heart called out to her, like a ram on the altar. But he seemed to understand, somehow. He did not approach her often, and did not stay for long, but he did not simply leave things. It was comforting, warm, hot, burning. She was glad for his visits, but equally glad he did not stay.

Once, Brynhild stumbled upon Beowulf singing a lay in the language of their homeland. Seeing the marks of the dragon left on his half-naked body, Brynhild dared not listen to his song.

She was afraid to meet Gilgamesh. Brynhild avoided him from the beginning. If her Beloved was her hero, the greatest of all heroes, then the First Hero, the King of Heroes, would no doubt be dangerous for her to be near. The facility staff spoke of him in hushed tones, reverent of his prowess. Of course, she eventually found herself seeking him out.

She met him, with his golden armor, his spiked hair, his cold eyes, his godly blood -- and it was not without incident. Brynhild laughed from the bottom of her artificial heart, disappearing into spirit form as he snarled and readied his treasures to obliterate her. She was later told it took some time to calm him down again.

Brynhild was delighted to know that the so-called King of Heroes was _revolting._

Of course, there was a larger issue once his older, wiser Caster form was summoned, but that was some time later.

The Japanese girl known as Ushiwakamaru was an odd case. Brynhild was rarely sent out alongside her, so she only knew her from the halls of Chaldea, where she bounced with girlish energy and made frivolous promises to decapitate her enemies. She was no danger, and Brynhild was glad for that.

Except once they were finally sent out together, and Brynhild saw the samurai in action. She wielded the sword masterfully, and her eyes focused like that of a predator, calculating the best attacks and then furiously following through, face emotionless as it was spattered with the blood of her enemies.

Brynhild solemnly requested not to be sent out with Ushiwaka anymore. She made her feel… strange. And then...

And then there was the counterfeit incident, which resulted in Jeanne d’Arc’s Alter being summoned to Chaldea, after she had created a series of fake servants -- including one of Brynhild. 

The valkyrie had to admit she was curious. Why her? She had heard about the sad fate of the Alter in the Orleans Singularity -- and about how she made a pet of Fafnir. Perhaps that was the connection.

She didn’t notice when she first approached the Alter -- who recoiled with a pained expression and a blush when she saw Brynhild. 

“ _Fufu,_ ” she laughed softly. “Do not worry, Avenger. I have heard about the other me you created. I am not her. Although… I admit I have my own problems.”

“That’s a relief,” she sighed. “All I wanted from that bitch was a damn frie-- _flunky!_ I-I’m not interested in making friends here either, though, so, you may as well just keep walking.”

Brynhild had to stifle another laugh. This woman actually reminded her of Thrud. Trying, but faltering, at putting up that cold exterior like her Beloved. Perhaps it had been no coincidence at all that it was Brynhild that the Avenger had recreated. She didn’t know. She still wasn’t used to making friends. Neither of them were.

Despite her protests, Brynhild kept approaching her -- the servant who came to be referred to as Jalter, and at least seemed to prefer that name to the one shared by her other self. Master seemed to pick up on this, and sent them along in teams together. Brynhild took the embers of her affection for her Beloved and focused her devotion on Jalter, and she channeled her draconic affinity into the flames of her anger and unleashed them on her enemies.

Brynhild was not the only one in Chaldea who burned.

That was the thought that made Brynhild realize. Her silky white hair, the fire in her eyes and wreathed around her sword, the smell of ozone and that unmistakable feeling of electricity and cold in the air when she attacked, the mark of Fafnir -- unmistakably, Jalter reminded her of her Beloved. But more than that, she reminded her of herself. She felt hot -- but not consuming. She wanted to be around Jalter, but not to hurt her. Actually, the urge was there, but it was blessedly easy to quell. So her breath caught a little when she saw Jalter bleed a bit, maybe imagining how it tasted, so what?

She had thought that the false valkyrie Jalter had made must have been flawed, but Brynhild realized she had been closer than she’d let herself suspect. She could be into women. 

She had never thought about it before. To be twisted up with her, soft pale skin on soft pale skin, long hair running like water between her fingers, exploring all the curves of her body, hearing her weak mewls, the scent of char and sweat and arousal. How deliciously timid and obedient might the ferocious Alter be in bed, when the right phrase already sent her running with a pink flush from her nose to her chest? 

She _did_ wonder what it would be like, but she didn’t press it. Jalter had only wanted a friend, as she’d said, and she had that now -- they both did. Brynhild would not dare risk that -- especially as she feared that if she really pursued the idea, her urge to hurt Jalter would increase. 

Above all, she still intended to honor the oaths she had sworn long ago, once to Odin and twice to her Beloved, to be with no one but him. She had always been beyond death, between worlds -- when she swore to the Gods, it was eternal. She was glad to just be friends.

They spent their first Valentine’s Day together, as friends, giggling as they did their best to avoid the festivities. Jalter did well to hide it, but she was legitimately concerned her new friend might have a heart attack if she was left out in the halls with all that going on. She was probably right. So instead of spending the day in isolation, lost in solipsism and on a sword’s edge of starting an inferno, Brynhild spent the day with her friend, squealing like a schoolgirl when Jalter gave a Valentine to Master.

Then something odd happened. About a month later, King Arthur was summoned. Not Artoria, but Arthur, a man, and _hero_ described everything about him perfectly. He was handsome, tall, strong, kind, soft-spoken, a tuft of hair springing up from his head in what Brynhild knew was a dragon’s reverse scale. She could feel his mana reactor thrumming from across a room. His sword was divine, and inscribed with runes. But his eyes were green. They were green. Weren’t they? They were bluish. Yes, they were a kind of blue. They were intense. There was light behind them, lit by hard-earned wisdom and deep resolve. She wanted to know how that light glinted in a dark room. She wanted to see it go out.

It wasn’t perfect -- his hair was gold, his face was rounder, features softer -- but it was close enough for Brynhild to know instantly she was in trouble. She froze as he walked down the hall toward her one day, and interestingly, so did he, catching her eye and stopping in his tracks.

Oh, that gaze -- worrying not for himself, but for her, analyzing her, stripping her down in his mind and -- she shook her head violently and clenched her fists to avoid summoning her spear outright. 

When she didn’t run or attack, he approached her cautiously.

“Lancer,” he held up a hand in tentative greeting. 

She opened her eyes, blushing at his soft voice calling out to her, and he smiled, and she swallowed.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. 

She was confused, but his familiarity with her only made the pounding in her ears louder. 

“Although, I suppose you wouldn’t remember me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

She watched his throat as he gulped nervously, so cute -- fantasizing about kissing it, biting it, slitting it, severing it. She gritted her teeth.

“Still, I’m happy to see you here. And… feeling much better.” 

His smile was so genuine, so charming. Hindarsfjall. Her sleepy eyes gazing upon the face of the man who had braved the fire and stripped the enchanted armor from her. She burned. She wanted him to keep talking. She wanted him to stop talking because his mouth was too preoccupied with other tasks. She wanted him to stop talking forever. 

Arthur’s eyes widened a little, his smile fading a bit. “I’m sorry. Even without the drugs, this must be difficult for you. I should have noticed earlier. I’m being selfish. Please, take care, Brynhildr.”

He turned and began to walk swiftly, and Brynhild’s mind clouded as his voice echoed in her mind, her name ringing around in her ears like sweet music. Her Beloved would not leave her again. She would make sure he could never leave her. They would be together forever in the new world after Ragnarok--

“Lancer.” He stopped and looked back at her, and at the sight of her eyes locking onto hers with such intensity, she stopped again. 

“Don’t lose hope. It may be a very long time… but you will see him again. I know it.”

Brynhild blinked. What--?

Arthur left, and she stood alone in the hallway. Cold. The fire had subsided to warm embers. The madness was gone. Arthur was a good man, a friend. Not her Beloved. How had he done that?

Was he right?

She had no right to that happiness. If she had one wish on a Grail, she should have wished to rid herself of the madness that corrupted her love, but… she knew that was not the miracle she would have chosen.

Nor was Arthur the only odd one she encountered that year as they pursued the Remnants. Once more a dragon came to Chaldea. And once more, she could feel the crisp bite on her tongue that told her it was Fafnir. The heart of her Beloved.

The boy from the reverse side of the world was cute. Not like her Beloved. Not like Siegfried either, although he looked like him. His hair was once brown, faded to white and black, like them. He bore the mark of Fafnir upon his chest. He smelled like dragon’s blood and fresh snow.

But when Brynhild saw him, she did not see the ghost of her Beloved. She did not want to embrace him, to destroy him, to do whatever at all she pleased to him -- she wanted to protect him. He was just a boy, and he tried so hard to help, and to fit in. He looked… he looked like what she imagined a son might have looked like. His name was Sieg, from the same root as her Beloved. It meant “ _victory_ ”, and it had been passed down in the Volsunga family from her Beloved’s father, Sigmund. 

Sieg made fast friends with Astolfo, and with many of the others who he remembered from his War: Jeanne, Fran, Jack, Chiron -- even Mordred -- and, of course, Siegfried, who had apparently been the one who had given him Fafnir’s heart. Whenever Siegfried was not around, Brynhild watched over them. She swore an oath, alone in her room one night, to protect Sieg.

Achilles, who arrived at around the same time as Sieg, who was from the same war and also became friends with the boy, was something of a problem himself, but not as much as Siegfried. He crackled with energy, but it was not that of a dragon, nor did it feel like the nostalgic winds of the north; it felt like warm waves, at times flowing gently, at others whorling and raging. His sharp eyes betrayed a wisdom beyond his youthful appearance, and he was divinely handsome by anyone’s standards. Brynhild made herself scarce when he came around as well, more out of manners than for genuine concern, for once.

He confronted her early on, telling her not to worry, that as her divinity was lower than his, his divine protections would allow him to mostly shrug off anything she could do to him, and anyway he was one of the best-equipped heroes to calm her down again.

That put her mind at ease somewhat, though she could feel the fire inside her heart pulse. She wanted to put his words to the test, as warriors, as man and woman, see what he could really do, what he would be willing to do, what he could endure… Which is why she continued to politely excuse herself.

Besides, she could tell he and a certain witch had caught each other’s eyes, and she didn’t want to interfere with that. She would play the part of Gudrun in nobody else’s saga, not for as long as she drew breath. 

It did not stop her from getting closer to Medea. Brynhild hated to see people waste the precious time she had never been afforded in life, even when they had their reasons as Medea did. Da Vinci giggled and said she was living vicariously by trying to play matchmaker again. She supposed she could not deny that, but… had she truly grown so comfortable in this place? 

She supposed she had. 

Then, finally, she went back to sleep. That was how she saw it. She was always fated to lay down and rest within the flames until a hero approached her. Da Vinci and Holmes took their readings and data, thanked her gratefully for her work, and unsummoned her, along with everyone else, as the New Year approached.

It felt like relief. To not have to worry. To not entertain thoughts of disemboweling her beloved Master and friends, for a time. 

When she was summoned again to that place, to heed the call to the gathering place of heroes represented by Mash’s shield and Master’s convictions, she thought she was still dreaming. When she opened her eyes--

She saw Sigurd.

The summoning chamber was sealed. Master was there, Mash cautiously in in front. Artoria and Jalter stood nearby. 

And Sigurd stood directly in front of her, smiling serenely.

Brynhild could not speak. Her lips trembled. Her hands shook. The flames in her heart roared out of control into an inferno, consuming her from head to toe such that nothing of her was left.

There was only him.

“ _My love._ ”

She fell into his waiting arms, weeping into his shirt as he stroked her hair. 

“I’m here. I’ve fulfilled my oath. Finally, I’ve returned to you.”

“I am so sorry, my love,” Brynhild cried.

“Quiet now,” he said to her, lips brushing her head. “No more apologies. You need never apologize to me. And I will not leave you again.”

“You should not stay with me,” she sniffed. “I will-- again, I--”

“I will not leave you,” he said again.

Even as he opened his mouth to apologize, she covered it with her hand, looking up at him. “No more apologies, you said. You know I forgave you long ago. You kept every oath, even those thrust upon you in bad faith, even those that pained you. To Gunnar. To Gudrun. That is the man I love.”

Had she ever seen those eyes filled with tears? This was surely not what anyone was expecting, least of all her. Sigurd, perhaps, was the only one who had confidently anticipated this. Gram was not even at his side, nor was he armored. They cleaned themselves up. Brynhild swore an oath to Master, as did Sigurd, to forever be his shield and sword, and they retired to her -- _their_ new room.

Sigurd was always ice, patient and thoughtful, but he had sparked fire in Brynhild long ago, and she _burned_. She consumed him.

When she was cast down, she was made to vow to marry. Angry, she vowed to marry no one but the greatest of all warriors, and a king. Sigurd was both, but he had no kingdom when they met, his birthright stolen from him, and they believed they had time. Though they called it their honeymoon, they had only _vowed_ to marry during their time at Hindarsfjall. Sigurd wore no ring when he arrived at the court of the Niflungs and captured poor Gudrun’s heart. Needless to say, Brynhild had never shared her bed with Gunnar.

Their true honeymoon was worth three-thousand years of waiting. 

She was fire, and he melted beneath her before roaring to life himself. Even when her curse reared its ugly head and she raked her nails down his back, scratched and bit at him hard enough to draw blood, he responded only by calling her name, bringing her back to herself, and captured her mouth with his before she could dare apologize. He didn't seem to mind the taste of his blood still on her lips, sweet and warm.

Her hands traced reverently over the ugly, beautiful scar over his heart, where the eternal fire burned from her spear, casting a soft blue glow over their naked forms. 

“This way, you are always with me,” he said.

She loved him. She hurt him, regularly. He did not mind. He took the blows she might have otherwise directed at others. He healed quickly and thoroughly, and stroked her cheek with a smile. 

When she passed Siegfried in the hall, the cursed fires of her love clouded her mind at the almost-Sigurd, the not-Sigurd, and her hand reached for her spear -- and found only Sigurd’s hand gently squeezing, and she calmed. She greeted Siegfried courteously, agreed to take Sieg to the simulator to train more the next day, and walked away arm-in-arm with her love, the flames flickering gently, warmly, in her chest.

It was a miracle, so perfect she could not possibly have wished for it. She knew, deep in her heart, that she would never hurt Master now. That she would never kill her love again. She was fire, and he was ice.

**Author's Note:**

> I love those two. Happy Valentine's Day 2021. Hope everyone had a good one. It's been a year, you deserve it.
> 
> This is the first fic I've written knowing and intending to post under the explicit category (I'm not sure it quite deserves that but it's close), which is weird because it seems like most of what I read is explicit. But I figure Brynhild, of all characters, needs that rating. Sex and violence can be insightful as fuck and absolutely worthy of literary merit, and that's the stuff I love to get into. So here's a bit from me.
> 
> Oh, and a spook of Achilles/Medea, which is a ship that... I'm not sure anyone else has even thought about. It fascinates me though; comes from an older version of the Medea myth where, instead of being condemned in Hades as you might expect, she was actually rewarded after death by being married to Achilles in the Elysian Fields. "After death" certainly sounds like "as Heroic Spirits" to me, so without a Souichirou in Chaldea, I'm sold.


End file.
